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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29296110">never seek him, defiantly, at night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes'>JennaCupcakes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It, I'm Magnanimous Like That, M/M, Pining, Recovery, Rival Co-workers to Lovers, Slow Burn, Yes Even Sir John, and they were bunkmates (oh my god they were bunkmates)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:53:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,298</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29296110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“The loss of a ship is a small price to pay for the completion of the Passage, wouldn’t you say?” James said, employing his best smile. Make it look easy, make it look painless, and people would gladly follow you—he’d learnt that early on. </p><p>“Well I’d not thought to see it,” said Sir John, looking between the two of them. “If both of you are of one mind, there must be some truth to it. Very well.” He clapped his hands together. “Francis, James, the two of you can figure out the logistics. I’ll inform the men after David Young’s funeral service. Begin preparations immediately.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>166</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fall Fitzier Exchange Treats, The Terror Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>never seek him, defiantly, at night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/gifts">Kt_fairy</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A very, very, very belated birthday gift for Kt_fairy! I picked from your Fall Fitzier exchange prompts “AU where Sir John listened and everyone went on to Terror for a winter as the sailed around the east of King William Land (omg they were roommates)” because I love a good roommate situation, me. </p><p>Enjoy this fix-it AU that plays fast &amp; loose with Arctic geography, as I employ the one tool Sir John Franklin didn’t have—Google Maps.<br/><br/>For my Terror bingo square ‘sugar bowl’. </p><p>I am indebted to Fleming’s <i>Barrow’s Boys</i> for the descriptions of shipboard life in the ice. As always, I know very little about ships and even less about ice. Please forgive any historical inaccuracies.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Nights were not made for the crowds, and they sever<br/>
you from your neighbour, so you shall never<br/>
seek him, defiantly, at night.<br/>
But if you make your dark house light,<br/>
to look on strangers in your room,<br/>
you must reflect—on whom.</em>
</p><p><br/>
—<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=13201">People at Night</a>, Rainer Maria Rilke</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Consolidate all our coal on <em>Terror</em>. We could get around the east side of King William Land, or perhaps even further.”</p><p>Next to Francis, Thomas Blanky nodded. “Yes, we should go for broke.”</p><p>James looked to Sir John. He had come to recognise the look of reluctance on the man’s face—at war between what he knew to be a sound decision, what he thought would be the proper one, from the vantage point of an Admiralty desk. He wondered if Sir John would be so reluctant if it was <em>Terror</em> that was damaged, and <em>Erebus</em> that would forge ahead. He cleared his throat.</p><p>“It sounds like a sound plan,” he said, carefully avoiding Francis’s eyes.</p><p>“Abandoning <em>Erebus</em>?”</p><p>“Well, that part is regrettable,” James said, “But if we want to get out of the way of the pack ice, it’s the only option that I can see.”</p><p>Apparently he’d stunned Francis into silence—the man could not even make use of the opening James had so deftly prepared for him. Thomas Blanky had to step in.</p><p>“He’s right about the ice. Every day we waste today could mean both ships get trapped further down the road. The ice might crush us against the western shore of King William Land and leave us with <em>no</em> ships left to complete the passage.”</p><p>It wasn’t like James couldn’t see it: leaving a ship behind, just because her propellor was slightly warped, wouldn’t look half as sound a decision from the warmth of the Admiralty office. The court martial, should he abandon <em>Erebus</em>, was guaranteed. Francis, whose only foe, as ever, was the ice, had no mind for such concerns. It was only James who understood that in order to face the ice, they’d have to give Sir John the courage to face the Admiralty.</p><p>“The loss of a ship is a small price to pay for the completion of the Passage, wouldn’t you say?” James said, employing his best smile. Make it look easy, make it look painless, and people would gladly follow you—he’d learnt that early on. By the time they realised it wasn’t as easy or painless as it looked, they were already assembling steamers in the swamp and heat of the banks of the Euphrates.</p><p>He was aware that Francis was watching him. He’d looked ready to upend the sugar bowl half a minute ago, now he looked at James like James had just proposed they all strip and dance a jig abovedeck to entertain the men.</p><p>“Well I’d not thought to see it,” said Sir John, looking between the two of them. “If both of you are of one mind, there must be some truth to it. Very well.” He clapped his hands together. “Francis, James, the two of you can figure out the logistics. I’ll inform the men after David Young’s funeral service. Begin preparations immediately.”</p><p>James smiled at Francis—a peace offering, of sorts. The smile Francis gave him in return didn’t reach his eyes. It never had, not once in the year James had spent with him.</p>
<hr/><p>“Where should I put this?”</p><p>James had trouble picking his way through the great cabin. His trunk was cradled awkwardly against his chest to prevent it from scraping against the myriad of crates that were already piled high in the scant space. At the last command meeting, Tom Blanky had informed them that <em>Terror</em> now sat an additional five inches lower in the water, and that they could expect that number to triple once the transfer of provisions was completed.</p><p>Francis himself was currently in the process of directing some ABs—James should know their names, but they were Terrors and so a lapse might be more readily forgiven—who had more crates that needed stowing. The grand table had been broken down for firewood yesterday. The only space not occupied by supplies now was the path from Francis’s berth to the seat of ease, and the path to and from the door that James was currently trying to navigate.</p><p>“Just put it—oh, James.” Francis dropped his arms. James had thought that seeing his plan brought to fruition might put some joy on the man’s face, but Francis seemed misanthropic as ever. A kinder man than James might attribute the pinched set of his forehead to the demands placed on him as captain, but James had had enough of Francis over the last year. He no longer felt very charitable towards him.</p><p>“There’s space in the berth,” Francis said, gesturing towards his—now their—berth. James, curtly, nodded his thanks.</p><p>Francis’s berth was surprisingly sparse, near monkish. James felt a sharp tug in his chest at the thought of his own berth back on <em>Erebus</em>, filled with keepsakes, journals, and specimen he hadn’t been able to bring, and that likely would forever rest at the bottom of this shallow ocean now.</p><p>James found the space Francis had spoken of easily enough. He stowed his things, then contemplated this space that would encompass his fate for the next year at least: more if Francis’s plan proved fruitless and the ended up stuck to the south of King William Land.</p><p>It was ridiculous—the last couple of days he’d found himself shaking off the impulse to laugh at the most inopportune moments. He realised now that he’d been waiting, with a child’s certainty, to be caught after a fall: like expecting the safety net under the circus rope. There was danger here, but only insomuch as bad decisions made it so—and Franklin was no John Ross, he’d proven that when he took Francis’s advice. Neither was this China, where all of James’s efforts seemed to go up in smoke with the city they were taking. Still Francis, prophet of doom that he was, refused to sound the all-clear that James so desperately wished to hear.</p><p>“All settled?”</p><p>James turned at the sound of the voice, more subdued now than at the command meeting. Francis had his hands behind his back, looking—looking apprehensive, James thought, and he felt a twinge of sympathy stir him.</p><p>“Yes,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Thank you for—thank you for letting me stay.”</p><p>Francis nodded in solemn acknowledgement. “Sir John’s settled in, too?”</p><p>Francis, of course, had offered Sir John his own cabin. Sir John, as Francis had likely expected, had refused—with a rather good-natured laugh and a comment that at least Lieutenant Little’s cabin offered more room than a certain Canadian cabin. James had no idea where Little was berthing now.</p><p>“Lieutenant Le Vesconte tells me we can expect the last of the provisions to be transferred this afternoon.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>Silence settled between them, heavy and awkward. James would have left, but Francis was blocking the way out of the berth and he felt like he should say something else, lest this end up being the moment that made the following winter unbearable—</p><p>“I’ll let you get on,” Francis said. He stepped aside. James went down the passageway and up the ladder, stepping past crates of supplies and sailors frantically hauling the last of their cargo. He took a deep breath of Arctic air. It smelled of winter.</p>
<hr/><p>He didn’t have to be on deck for this moment—nothing in his many duties obligated him to be—but James felt the need as deep and acutely as though it was a duty, nevertheless.</p><p>He stood at <em>Terror’s</em> stern, hands balled into fists in the pockets of his greatcoat. It was a hazy day, with an ethereal sort of mist in the air. It reduced their visibility—but not so much that he couldn’t still see the dark outline of <em>Erebus</em> against the stark white of the landscape. She rocked gently in the wind: a dreamlike motion, a peaceful sight. If only it wouldn’t make James feel like he’d failed in the most elemental part of his duty.</p><p>Perhaps someone would come back for her. Empty shell though she was now, she deserved better than to be abandoned at the end of the world. But as James watched her silhouette become less and less clear in the fog, he already knew that she would be buried here, that these frozen waters would become her grave. A piece of land to be named after her, perhaps, like <em>Fury</em> gracing a spit of shore on Somerset Isle. Perhaps, one day, other places as well.</p><p>When they discovered the Passage, he’d make sure that <em>Erebus</em> got her due.</p><p>The thought only somewhat managed to cheer him. It reminded him too much of their predicament, the uncertainty of everything that yet lay before them. It was as though Francis’s dire warnings had made a permanent nest in his ear.</p><p>“There you are.”</p><p>James turned guiltily, as though Francis might have been summoned by his gloomy thoughts. He joined James at the guardrail with a brief nod, then followed James’s gaze out towards where <em>Erebus</em> was barely more than a dark shadow in the mist. James waited for him to speak, but he simply stood until the ship had disappeared from view, and then he stood a little longer while James felt torn between the precarious, sacred air of the moment and the urge to break the tense silence.</p><p>He cleared his throat. As though returning to his body from some faraway place, Francis stirred. He blinked; shook his head slowly.</p><p>“A shame,” he pronounced.</p><p>There was nothing in his voice that sounded accusatory, and yet James flinched. Their relationship had barely had time to recover from its many false starts over the course of their terrible winter on Beechey. James knew that Francis thought him too easy-going, an officer who’d made his rank through connections rather than hard work, while James found himself continuously astonished at the miserable figure the great Antarctic hero Francis Crozier cut in real life. He realised now that of late, he’d given up even trying to be courteous towards the man. With their new living situation, perhaps the time had come to make an effort once more.</p><p>“When we return, you may lay all the blame of her loss on me when Sir James asks what happened to his ship.”</p><p>Francis gave him a queer look—he had a way of looking at you from the side, one eyebrow raised, that always made James feel like he had dirt on his face and no one had bothered to tell him.</p><p>“It’s not like he was planning to make use of her again. He’s got his hands full with Ann.”</p><p>“It was—” James shook his head. “Forget about it.”</p><p>Francis nodded sternly as though to say <em>if you wish</em>, then turned back towards the guardrail. He leaned against it, arms folded over one another. “I nearly wrecked her for him in Antarctica, you know.”</p><p>A story, from Francis Crozier? James seriously considered the possibility that he’d fallen into the icy waters and was hallucinating in his last moments.</p><p>“Oh yes?”</p><p>Francis’s eyes remained fixed on the spot where <em>Erebus</em> had disappeared.</p><p>“I’ll tell you the whole thing, one day. It’s a miracle we made it out of that place alive.”</p><p>A sour note crept back into his voice at the last sentence, and James felt reassured and unsettled at the same time—reassured because Francis was still Francis, and unsettled at the reminder of the uncertainty of their fate. If they were to disappear here, who would find them? He thought of <em>Erebus</em> disappearing into the fog again.</p><p>“In any case,” Francis said, “I only came to tell you that the bunk is yours for the next eight hours.”</p><p>James never felt tired when it was his turn to sleep. His body had been thrown off course, left adrift on this unfamiliar ship, in an unfamiliar time. Only habit and duty, it seemed, were keeping him upright.</p><p>“Ah. Thank you.”</p><p>Francis smiled a tight-lipped smile. “Sleep well.”</p>
<hr/><p>The weather worsened rapidly the following week.</p><p>Masters Reid and Blanky informed them that their planned route east around King William Land—Francis insisted on calling it Kind William Island, his own kind of superstitious charm perhaps—had brought them out of the reach of those larger bits of ice that signalled the nearness of the pack, and that this was to be taken as a good sign. Nevertheless, as they were pelted with sleet day after day, engine running at full steam, James couldn’t help the trepidation that crept up his spine. Surely this was an omen, just as those dead on Beechey had been. It felt like they were ignoring another warning sign.</p><p>This superstitious temperament of his was new, as were the dark circles under his eyes that came from changing his sleep schedule. He’d assured Francis it would be no problem—he’d followed it with a joke about the restlessness of youth he came to regret immediately afterwards when he saw the look that crossed Francis’s face and realised how the man had taken his witticism.</p><p>They sailed around the south-eastern edge of King William Land in the third week of September—a day with a heavy, grey sky that nevertheless left them mercifully dry, and moreover allowed Lieutenant Irving, when he climbed the rigging at six bells that morning, to sight the strait that neatly separated the island from the Adelaide peninsula. James watched Francis’s face as Irving informed them of what he’d seen, hoping to catch the smallest hint of self-satisfaction. Instead, the expression on his face was serious, his eyes cast in dark shadow by his cap.</p><p>“What of the ice?”</p><p>“I would defer to the ice masters on this, but it seems to me that the sea beyond the strait is already frozen.”</p><p>Francis nodded. “Alright. We’ll have the ice masters confirm that.”</p><p>Then he turned to James and Sir John. “We should find winter harbour now. Somewhere the ship will be protected from the worst of the currents of the pack.”</p><p>Sir John might have argued in that moment, if it weren’t for the ice already building up beyond the channel—finding the strait, after all, had all but completed their objective, and now all that remained was to sail through it. But nature had settled that argument for them.</p><p>“We’ll begin scouting at once,” James said.</p><p>Francis and Sir John exchanged a tense look, then. Command had become an intricate dance on <em>Terror</em>—she was Francis’s ship, and as such he had the last word on shipboard matters, but Sir John’s word was final on expedition business. Such a clear-cut distinction in theory became rather messy in practice.</p><p>Still, they both acquiesced with a nod—almost comical, James thought, the way they were both unable to swallow their pride. Sir John went belowdecks while Francis remained above, hands clenched around the guardrail at the stern. James joined him after a moment’s hesitation, looking out over the dark water, Adelaide peninsula to port. He felt closer to civilisation than he had in the months since their departure, even though their location was still unthinkably remote.</p><p>“I’d expected you to be happier.”</p><p>He wanted to bite his tongue when Francis turned to him, eyebrows raised in surprise. James swallowed, forged on.</p><p>“This was your idea, after all. We listened to your advice. It turned out you were right.”</p><p>Francis looked pale in the Arctic daylight. His eyes—a watery blue that James found hard to read—flitted over his face, as though trying to make something out.</p><p>“We’re not saved yet, James.” He shook his head. James thought he’d offended Francis, but it seemed he had struck something deeper. “This whole idea is a gamble I’ve staked my life and reputation on. I’ll not breathe a sigh of relief until we’re in safe waters again.”</p>
<hr/><p>They harboured in a bay that was just large enough to hold <em>Terror</em>, the sea already thick with ice around them. On the first day that the ice was thick enough to carry a man, Sir John ordered everyone on deck to begin preparations for the winter—they dismantled the masts and the upper rigging, used some of that to support the canvas that would cover <em>Terror’s</em> deck. With the ice frozen solid around them, they packed snow against her hull for further insulation. To clear as much space as possible for the one hundred and thirty men she now harboured, they moved out all supplies that were not needed daily to a store on shore, and moved all the scientific equipment to a separate observation hut that was constructed under James’s command and Francis’s disapproving gaze.</p><p>James looked at the icy landscape around them with a mixture of trepidation and resolve—it felt like they had achieved so little since their first winter, and yet he already knew that despite all their dreariness, that Arctic winters were survivable. He watched the men work and knew that they were good and capable, and that they would bear the hardships that winter asked of them, and he looked at the officers and knew the same. They were ready for this, and in a few months’ time, the passage would be theirs.</p><p>During the command meetings, they now discussed how to best keep the men occupied and entertained. Sir John insisted on the exercise regimen he’d pilfered from Parry, even though James had caught Francis joking about it with Thomas Blanky in the passageway after the meeting<em>—"Half sure he just thought it would look funny, the way we all jumped around like that, and now with twice the men!”</em></p><p>He was more enthusiastic about the promise of a magnetic observation hut, even though Sir John promptly gave James command of that project. Privately, James sneered a little at Francis’s childish reticence to forget that particular slight of the Admiralty. Surely after a year, and with James even asking for his help, he might be able to forget about the unfortunate way that particular assignment had been handled.</p><p>They switched off shifts in the observation hut like they traded shifts in the bunk. It had the added effect that he rarely saw Francis now, and he wasn’t sure whether to be glad or disappointed—a year ago he would have been disappointed to lose the chance of spending time with this polar hero, but Francis had long ceased to be that in his mind. Still, he wished Francis would look at him with kindness, for he had the feeling that Francis was exceedingly lonely, even on this ship that was now nearly at double capacity. James could be a companion, even a friend to him. He wouldn’t hold a grudge.</p><p>It was not to be. The only times they spoke was when they chanced to meet in the great cabin during shift changes. October came and went, and James immersed himself in winter shipboard life—he wrote a poem for the ship’s gazette, which Dundy read to the wardroom to great accolades. He also began planning for their Christmas celebrations, and between that and his duties, his time was quite profitably occupied. He simply did not have the time to concern himself with Francis Crozier’s regard, or lack thereof, for him.</p>
<hr/><p>The fact that they were on separate shifts saved James from having to make the trek to the observation hut with Francis every day.</p><p>It was a small mercy, compared to last winter, which they’d spent huddled together in the dark hut on Beechey, with Francis instructing him in the use of the Fox in the most miserable tone. It was a task suited to him, James thought—it required solitude, which was likely no hardship for a man who so despised joy and good company. The only thing he likely lacked, James thought acerbically, was a steady hand. Francis’s drinking had only increased over the course of the summer, to the point where Jopson was always at the ready with a glass when Francis woke up in the morning. As his bunkmate, James was now to privy to that information.</p><p>Separate shifts, sadly, did not mean entirely opposing schedules.</p><p>James, busy for some hours with the dip circle now, had just stretched out to relieve the tension in his neck that had crept up on him from sitting hunched over the instrument for so long. As he breathed out, his breath condensed in the air in front of him in thick heavy steam. The only light in the hut came from a single lonely candle that just allowed him to read the instrument, but that persistently caused a headache when he focussed on the small numbers for too long. As he put his pen aside to read over the last hours’ observations, the door opened, bringing a blast of cold wind and snow with it.</p><p>James righted himself, feeling a strange sort of guilt, like a child caught at something he shouldn’t be doing.</p><p>“Ah. Francis. Good morning.”</p><p>In truth, James had been up long enough that it felt like late afternoon to him, but the darkness and the mixed schedules on the ship meant that time felt a little out of joint.</p><p>“Good morning,” Francis said in a clipped tone. He regarded James like he’d quite forgotten that he was also on this expedition, and could on occasion be expected to take observations in the hut built specifically for that purpose.</p><p>James, feeling petty, decided to sit it out a moment. “Come to relieve me, then?”</p><p>“I—if you’re finished, I can take over.”</p><p>He seemed to have become conscious, at least, of his gruff manner.</p><p>James decided to take mercy on him. He vacated the chair by the dip circle; invited Francis to it with a flourish of his hand. “Be my guest.”</p><p>They shuffled around each other until Francis was seated and James could reach his slops. It was noticeably warmer with two people in the cabin, and James found he loathed the thought of going back outside so soon, when his fingers and toes were already numb from the cold. He busied himself with shaking out his slops, half hoping Francis might strike up a conversation, however awkward. It would give him an excuse not to go out just yet. But Francis remained bent over his needle like James wasn’t even there, occasionally shuffling through the papers James had so meticulously filled out over the course of the last hours, making quiet derisive noises.</p><p>“Something the matter?” James asked.</p><p>“No, no,” Francis said. Then he made that noise again.</p><p>James tossed his coat on the chair. “Out with it, Francis!”</p><p>“The readings just seemed… surprising to me.”</p><p>“Surprising?”</p><p>Francis wouldn’t look at him, but James knew well enough the tone of his voice, the disappointed teacher’s pitch of it. “If there’s something the matter then tell me, and I shall attempt to explain it or correct it!”</p><p>“I’m sure you took the readings to the best of your ability,” Francis said. The placating tone of it was more than James could stand.</p><p>“If you hadn’t been so obstinate last winter—” He stopped himself before he could truly fly into a rage, though he desperately wanted to. It was unbecoming. But if Francis refused to be civil, that did not give James leave to do the same.</p><p>“I will endeavour to be more precise next time, and you can tell me if I meet your standards.”</p><p>That would have made a fine parting word, unfortunately he still had to put on his slops. The uncomfortable silence that stretched between them was interrupted only by the rustling of fabric, and the scratch of Francis’s pen.</p>
<hr/><p>When James slid open the door to the berth, he was hit by the smell of an unwashed body, stale sweat and the sickly-sweet odour that alcohol left behind.</p><p>Francis was still asleep in the bunk, although it was already quarter past the hour that James should have been asleep. He’d just come down from the deck, having talked to the marines on watch. Hoar had taken his slops and given him tea, but James was still frozen through and craved nothing more than to curl up in his bunk and sleep for a couple of hours.</p><p>Uncharacteristic, James thought, for Jopson not to wake Francis.</p><p>He stepped gingerly over an empty bottle on the floor. The pillow was stained dark with Francis’s sweat. An acute sense of disgust overcame him, and he shoved roughly at Francis’s shoulder.</p><p>“Up with you, Francis.”</p><p>The man stirred and muttered something incomprehensible but did not rouse himself to full wakefulness. James shoved him again, harder, frustrated now.</p><p>“Get up!”</p><p>Francis’s eyes blinked open. Through narrowed slits, he glared at James. “You’re not Jopson.”</p><p>“I assume your steward is busy,” James said testily. “In any case, I’d like to sleep.”</p><p>Francis frowned as he peeled himself out of the blankets. He did his best to avoid looking at James.</p><p>“Good God,” he muttered, “A minute, if you please!”</p><p>Francis reached for the bell. As he did, his nightshirt slipped to reveal the pale freckled skin of his arm.</p><p>James felt it go through him like a shock, and couldn’t quite explain why—there was, perhaps, the realisation that there was a man beneath the uniform that James knew very little about. Francis Crozier, when he wasn’t polished up by his steward to F.R.M.C., R.N., F.R.S., F.R.A.S.</p><p>It didn’t take long for Jopson to appear, an apology on his lips about a scheduling conflict with Gibson who’d been late with Irving’s laundry again.</p><p>“Well?” Francis asked as Jopson began laying out the uniform. James startled. “What?”</p><p>“Are you going to stay here and watch me dress?”</p><p>“Ah. No.”</p><p>James felt his cheeks warm as he turned and headed out of the berth. He slid the door closed but even so, he could hear the low murmur of Jopson’s voice, and the harsher tone of Francis’s answers. He pretended to busy himself with some maps, as though there was a single part of his mind that wasn’t in some way attuned to what was going on behind that door.</p><p>It slid back open, and James abandoned his feigned contemplation of the Victoria Strait with relief. Francis stood in the door, still a little pale around the nose—nothing a good breakfast couldn’t fix, certainly. James had always envied how he wore his uniform: Francis, more than most men he knew, fit the uniform in the truest sense. He looked stately, steadfast. But James thought he could detect something else about him now, a vulnerability that the uniform mostly concealed. He couldn’t decide whether to look away in embarrassment or to rush over and offer Francis the comfort he seemed to need. Luckily, James knew exactly how the latter would be received.</p><p>He had trouble falling asleep for a while after that, and while he wanted to blame it on his body and the strangeness of the new sleep schedule, the image of Francis’s wrist in his mind spited his excuses.</p>
<hr/><p>The world was white around him.</p><p>The world was white, but not a peaceful white—barely lit by his lamp, this was a confusing whiteness, a world where snow and wind made it impossible to tell which way was up and which way was down. It was imperative that he keep moving, but he was on the verge of forgetting exactly <em>why</em> it mattered so much; why he shouldn’t just sit down here in the snow until he could figure out where it was he’d been meaning to go.</p><p>He looked at his hands, confused. That was another symptom—of what, he could not remember. Exhaustion, confusion, and the strange feeling that despite the gale raging around him, he was suddenly rather hot—</p><p>He shook his head energetically. He had to keep moving, even if he could not remember where he was going or why he was going there. Just a minute ago, it had still been clear in his mind.</p><p>It was the fault of the blasted lights. He’d instructed the men to keep them lit at all times, leading to and from the observation hut, but Sir John had insisted that they not send men out in bad weather. James had pointed out that that was precisely when they’d need them most and now, he was lost in the middle of an unexpected gale.</p><p>It was getting rather hard to move forward. The ice was slippery under his boots, and his head spun viciously whenever he tried to look ahead. He undid the top two buttons of his greatcoat, then undid the whole row and peeled it off, but he was still too hot. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. The Welsh wig was already soaked through and frozen stiff. He ripped that off as well, and could feel some of his hair go with it.</p><p>“I see a light!”</p><p>“There he is! I see him! It’s the commander!”</p><p>James raised his head, tried to make out the source of the voices in the dense confusion of the storm. He could see nothing until a hand clasped him on the shoulder.</p><p>“What happened to your coat, sir?”</p><p>“Nevermind about the coat; he’s frozen through! We need to get him inside!”</p><p>“I’ll let the others know.”</p><p>James followed his rescuer with clumsy steps. He wanted to ask the man if he knew there was no way out of this white nothingness but found his lips too cold to move. He should have pulled up his muffler, but it seemed he was no longer wearing his muffler.</p><p>There were lights up ahead. James watched with the fascination of a child as the hulking shape of <em>Terror</em>peeled itself out of the Arctic darkness before them, lit by lamps that were barely visible in the gale. He was helped up the ramp, and then again down the ladder. Though he knew the temperature in the ship was still below freezing, it burned on his cheeks.</p><p>“We have the commander!”</p><p>“Make way, make way please.”</p><p>The heat stung James’s eyes, and he blinked, but things remained blurry and bright. He closed his eyes.</p><p>“Get him to sickbay,” a voice ordered. Then, another voice cut in. “Here, James.”</p><p>A hand on his arm, and he was led down the passageway into the great cabin and beyond that into his berth. By then he was shaking, but he had at least puzzled out that the man leading him was Francis, and his face flushed hot with shame. That was one way to ward off the frostbite at least.</p><p>“Jopson, get me some water. I’ll help the commander with his slops.”</p><p>James just stood dumbly as Francis began undoing the buttons of his clothes and pulling them off him as quickly as he could manage. All he could do was stand there and shake, even with the roaring fire in the stove before his eyes. He watched the brightness of the coals in fascination, the way they seemed to pulse with something like life.</p><p>Dimly, he felt the touch of a palm to his cheek—he focussed and saw Francis’s eyes on him, bright blue with concern. “Are you with me?”</p><p>James nodded.</p><p>“I’m going to need you to step out of these, James.”</p><p>James realised Francis was talking about his slops, and likely the trousers beneath. He did as he was told. This close, he could smell the whiskey on Francis, but his eyes were clear—shock could do that to a person, James remembered. The shock of thinking one of the commanders of the expedition lost out on the ice, perhaps.</p><p>“I have acted rather stupidly, haven’t I,” he said. The sound of his own voice shocked him—it was a quiet, wispy thing, sounding far weaker than he would have liked. He cleared his throat.</p><p>“You should have come back hours ago. Didn’t you see the storm build?”</p><p>He had, James remembered. He’d been watching the barometer, after all. But the day’s observations hadn’t been finished, and against the prospect of the sneer on Francis’s face, an Arctic gale didn’t seem quite so bad.</p><p>“Had to—had to finish the readings.”</p><p>His jaw clamped shut painfully before he could elaborate further. His teeth were chattering. Francis helped him out of his trousers. He said nothing more on the matter.</p><p>James did shy back when Francis reached for his linens. Francis sighed. “I need to warm you. You’re frozen through, James.”</p><p>“I’d rather keep those on, much warmer.”</p><p>“Off with them, and I’ll not hear another word,” Francis ordered.</p><p>Dumbfounded, James complied.</p><p>Francis ushered him under the covers of their shared bunk. It still stunk like whiskey, but the smell was familiar to James, even repulsive as it was. He drew the covers closely around himself and closed his eyes, feeling—predictably—cold without his clothes. He opened them again at the rustling of fabric.</p><p>“Why on earth are you taking your clothes off?”</p><p>“Body heat,” Francis said. “Move over.”</p><p>Perhaps he was still out on the ice. It was certainly more believable than what was currently happening to him: Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, naked as the day he was born, was climbing into the bunk, wrapping his arms around James and pulling him flush against his chest.</p><p>“Good Christ,” James muttered, “I am not normally quite so forward, Francis.”</p><p>“I’ll forgive you anything stupid that comes out of your mouth tonight,” Francis grumbled in his ear, which James thought was a rather pleasant sensation.</p><p>“My hands hurt,” he complained.</p><p>“That’s what you get for going out in a storm.”</p><p>The burn of embarrassment still stung, but Francis must have been right on the count of the body heat—he was feeling rather more relaxed with the gentle curve of Francis’s belly nestled against his lower back and Francis’s arms, thick and sturdy, wrapped around his torso. There was a strength to the embrace, one that didn’t quite seem merited by the goal of warming up a fellow officer—James thought he recognised a helpless fear in it, the sort that came with loss or its near neighbour.</p><p>“I apologise,” he said. It was hard, moving his lips—he was tired beyond measure, and the sensation still hadn’t quite returned to them. “I didn’t—didn’t want to let you down. Know the measurements mean a lot to you.”</p><p>Francis didn’t respond to that. It was alright, James thought, it was probably just as foolish to hope for absolution from Francis as it had been to stay behind at the observation hut.</p><p>“James—”</p><p>When Francis spoke, he sounded hurt. James had never heard him like that before. He waited with bated breath for the next words that would surely follow, but none ever came. Instead, James slipped quietly into a restless dream, one where he was still out on the ice and calling out to Francis, who didn’t respond.</p>
<hr/><p>James was confined to his bed for a week, and it was near Christmas by the time he felt strong enough to join the other officers in their exercise regimen again. He had no idea where Francis slept during the time he was too weak to rise from the bed except to make his way to the seat of ease. He did visit James’s bedside, mostly to inquire about his health and once to tell him that the observation’s he’d taken had survived the gale.</p><p>At that, James had groaned. “I wish we could leave this folly of mine far behind us and never speak of it again.”</p><p>Francis had smiled—a strange, private sort of smile that James had never seen on him before. “Is it not for the world to know that Commander Fitzjames is just as fallible as the rest of us?”</p><p>“You’re enjoying this.”</p><p>Just as quickly as the smile had appeared, Francis turned serious again. “Only because you’ve survived to submit yourself to my teasing.”</p><p>It wasn’t the only strange encounter with Francis. By the time he could walk about the ship again, James noticed that Francis had started to look rather pale. The man had obviously been sleeping poorly over the course of James’s illness, perhaps due to worry, most likely because of having to sleep in an unfamiliar bed. He was quiet during the command meetings—quieter than usual, which further stoked James’s suspicion.</p><p>Preparations for their Christmas celebration somewhat distracted James from Francis’s eccentric behaviour. He’d convinced Sir John of staging a play again, after it had been so well-received during their first winter on Beechey. He’d made directing choices even from his sickbed, but now that he could walk again, he found himself bombarded with questions of costumes and staging that consumed what free time he had, and by the time he made it back to their berth, he was usually quite exhausted.</p><p>The play was a rousing success, of course. James had declined a starring role, in part because none of the roles took his fancy and in part so as to not steal the show from the other actors, all amateur thespians, unlike him. He’d taken on the role of prompter for the sailors who invariably ended up forgetting some of their lines. He was too busy reading along to watch the audience, but at the curtain call, he noticed that Francis was missing.</p><p>He tried not to take it personally. It still stung.</p>
<hr/><p>It was the first week of January that James found Jopson in the cabin he shared with Francis, kneeling before the bunk, shaking Francis’s limp form with an imploring expression on his face.</p><p>“Captain. <em>Captain</em>!”</p><p>James dropped his coat—which had since been recovered for him from the ice—and hurried to Jopson’s side. “What happened?”</p><p>Francis was half leaning out of the bunk, a pool of vomit on the floor beneath him. Perhaps it had been presence of mind, or perhaps sheer luck that had caused him to lean out of the bunk, or he might have choked on it—an inglorious end for a polar explorer with his credentials. James noted with something like relief that Francis was still breathing.</p><p>“Captain, can you hear me?”</p><p>Jopson was looking at Francis with wild eyes—the lad was clearly distressed at seeing his captain so lifeless. James put a steadying hand to his arm.</p><p>“Mr Jopson, would you fetch the captain some water?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>Jopson half stumbled, half ran out of the berth. James scooted closer to Francis.</p><p>He couldn’t spy a single bottle anywhere around. Either Francis had tried to hide the evidence of his excesses, or something else was going on here. No matter, James vowed—he’d get to the bottom of it.</p><p>“Francis,” he said, putting a hand to the man’s shoulder. “Come on, sit up for me.”</p><p>He was relieved beyond measure when Francis stirred. He blinked; watery eyes fixing on James. His forehead was creased; marked with a thin sheen of sweat. James watched as he swallowed laboriously: no wonder, his throat was likely dry as dust.</p><p>James offered a hand as Francis drew himself up with some difficulty. He was breathing heavily through his nose. Then he threw out a hand—panic, though James didn’t understand why—and spat vomit over the front of James’s uniform and trousers.</p><p>James could do nothing but sit for a moment. Francis had managed to right himself and was babbling about how sorry, how terribly sorry he was. James could barely hear it over the pulse of blood in his ears; the rising of his temper that wanted to shove Francis, yell at him, demand some kind of answer for this behaviour that was wholly inappropriate for an officer of Her Majesty’s Navy. To hell with patience. To hell with civility. This had gone on long enough. James would see to it that it ended here and now.</p><p>“I have extended you the utmost of patience—” he began, just as the sound of steps rang in the passageway and Jopson returned, holding a tray of tea and a pitcher of water. He took in the situation with the practised eye of a steward that knew his captain and set down the tray.</p><p>“Let’s get you out of that, commander,” he said without missing a beat, “and I’ll send for Hoar to have it laundered.”</p><p>James spared one look at Francis, who looked miserable as he huddled under his blanket, curled against the bulkhead. Then he followed Jopson into the great cabin.</p><p>Jopson helped him take off his waistcoat and guernsey, then his uniform trousers. He fetched James fresh clothes and helped him into those as well, though James tried to insist he could dress himself.</p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” Jopson said, and in it James heard an apology for his captain’s behaviour. “We’ll have you looking right again in no time, sir.”</p><p>As far as James knew, Francis had never been cruel to Jopson, but there was a deep need in him to please. It must be hard, James thought, to be so devoted to a man so reviled by others. Jopson had taken on the task of scrubbing out Francis’s failings—quite literally, in this case.</p><p>“I appreciate that,” James said, and meant it.</p><p>Jopson disappeared with his arm full of dirty laundry. James picked up the tray of tea that Jopson had brought in earlier and moved back into the berth. High time he had some frank words with Francis.</p><p>Francis still hadn’t quite managed to sit up. James drew out a chair. He passed one of the cups to Francis.</p><p>Francis took the cup from him, but as soon as James let go, the cup began to shake—Francis’s hand was trembling, so badly that most of the liquid spilled on the covers and Francis’s hand before James caught it. It was lucky that nothing stayed hot for long up here, or Francis might have burnt himself rather badly. As things stood, he only swore viciously while James set the cup aside, trying to appear calm.</p><p>“What’s the matter with you, Francis?”</p><p>Francis laced his hands together in his lap. James realised it wasn’t just the man’s hands—his entire body was shaking, wrecked by minute tremors.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said. He looked close to tears, a truly pathetic sight. “I tried, I really tried, but I couldn’t—I can’t—”</p><p>“What are you talking about?”</p><p>“You nearly got yourself killed because—” Francis hiccupped. “The blasted observations. Never should have badgered you about them like I did. Tha’ was the whiskey talking.”</p><p>“Francis, man, <em>what’s going on</em>?”</p><p>James’s frustration had by now been replaced by a deep worry, mixed with a terrible sense of foreboding.</p><p>“It needs to stop. I need to stop, James.”</p><p>It all fell into place rather quickly then: the lack of bottles, the pale tone of Francis’s skin over the last week, the sweat and the vomit and the tremors. James covered his mouth with one hand and stared at Francis. He’d been ready to damn him a minute ago, now he wondered if there was such a thing as a scale that could accurately measure Francis Crozier.</p><p>“The whiskey—you mean to—?”</p><p>Francis nodded feebly. “I must. I must.”</p><p>“Christ.” James ran a hand over his face. “Well.”</p><p>The cup of tea, now half abandoned, still sat on its tray. He reached for it. “Would you like some?”</p><p>Francis nodded. “A sip. Wouldn’t want to throw up on you again.”</p><p>James laughed because he didn’t know what else to do. He half didn’t believe this was truly happening, even as he cradled the back of Francis’s head for support, helped him take small sips of tea until he shook his head and sagged back against the bulkhead.</p><p>Could it be? Had he really measured Francis Crozier all wrong?</p>
<hr/><p><em>Terror’s</em> quarterdeck was the only place on the overcrowded ship where an officer might find some peace these days. There were no men on deck besides the ones on watch, the bitter January cold discouraging most everyone to seek shelter inside. James had stepped out with Henry, who was smoking while James was watching the spinning of the compass needle as though it would bring him answers.</p><p>“I’m sure Lieutenant Irving wouldn’t mind if we freed up some space in our cabin.”</p><p>James had laid it all out to Henry. A part of him felt guilty for that, as though he was betraying Francis’s trust. But it wasn’t like he had asked to be brought into Francis’s confidence.</p><p>It wasn’t like he’d asked for any of this.</p><p>“I couldn’t ask that of you.” James shook his head, as though that might finally clear the swirl of thoughts he’d been caught in since this morning. “We’ll figure something out. I might just set up in the great cabin.”</p><p>Henry gave a noncommittal hum. “Seems rather draughty to me.”</p><p>“I prefer the fresh air,” James said, then managed half a grin that Henry returned. Seeing him smile was a comfort to James every time, like a secret language between them: as long as they could still make the other laugh, things would be alright.</p><p>“I had no idea it was quite that serious,” Henry admitted. He stubbed out his cigarette in a pile of snow, then flicked the butt over the guardrail. “Always thought he was just miserable. Some men get that way as they age.”</p><p>“Yes, well.” James didn’t know what else to say. None of them had known Francis very well, not really—he’d seen to that, keeping to himself on <em>Terror</em>. Now that they were all locked up together, their ugly truths slowly rose to the surface. <em>Christ</em>, perhaps he could use a drink himself.</p><p>“Will you tell Sir John?”</p><p>James gave Henry an unhappy smile. “You know what he’d say.”</p><p>Franklin, the teetotaller, would see in Francis’s recovery only confirmation of his sin. He might seize on the opportunity to strip Francis of his command.</p><p>James shook his head. “I think this illness is Crozier’s private matter. I’ll treat it as such.”</p><p>Leaving aside Henry, but he trusted Henry. Besides, a man needed to keep some counsel.</p><p>“Do you think he’ll make it?”</p><p>It was a reasonable question. Francis had always seemed like a man of singular resolve, but particular about what he used that skill on. He could make himself bear almost any hardship—the privations of the Antarctic pack, winters without light in the Arctic as a midshipman, rejection after rejection, but he could hardly sit still through a wardroom dinner. James could not understand the man.</p><p>“He might surprise us,” James said, and hoped in the same breath that it was true.</p>
<hr/><p>James awoke in the half darkness of the great cabin, the coals stoked to a low burn, to the sound of someone calling out in a feeble voice.</p><p>It was the third time that night that Francis was calling for Jopson—James had to assume it was Jopson; Francis’s voice was too low for him to understand—instead of ringing for the man. So far, he had not managed to summon his steward, no matter how pathetically he moaned. With a huff, James rolled over, closing his eyes and willing sleep to overtake him once more.</p><p>Francis called again.</p><p>James felt a blinding rage bubble up in his chest—the kind known only to men robbed of their sleep—and threw off the blanket.</p><p>“For God’s sake!” He called as he stomped the short way over to Francis’s berth, shivering in his nightshirt and socks. “What is it, Francis?”</p><p>The man’s eyes were half-closed, unfocussed. He didn’t seem to notice that James was there, he barely even seemed aware of having spoken. Gingerly, still torn between wanting to leave and the urge to help settle Francis, if he could, he knelt down and put a hand on Francis’s shoulder.</p><p>Francis startled. His head turned towards James.</p><p>“Thirsty,” he managed.</p><p>James rubbed at his eyes, sighed. Dr MacDonald had explained that Francis was only allowed small sips of water at a time, to make sure his body retained the liquid. Jopson had disappeared with the half-frozen pitcher hours ago, but there was tea left on the stove—no doubt the stuff tasted abominably by now, but if it would help Francis settle and James sleep, he’d take it.</p><p>James squeezed Francis’s shoulder, then trotted over to the stove. He spied the sugar bowl on the table—the fact that Jopson had forgotten it spoke to how exhausted the man must be—and figured some sweetener might help the taste. He lifted the lid and frowned.</p><p>“You’re out of sugar,” he declared. Francis didn’t respond, but in all honesty, James hadn’t expected him to. He came back to Francis with the lukewarm tea and helped him sit up.</p><p>Francis gulped down his two sips greedily and protested when James took the cup away. His throat was working as he laid back down, as though trying to make the most of what little moisture he’d been granted. His lips were dry. He managed to pry open one eye to glare at James.</p><p>“I’d kill you for a glass of whiskey if I could manage to lift my arms,” he croaked. James stared at him until Francis’s chest began to rise and fall with heaving breaths, a wheezing sound escaped his mouth and James realised he was laughing—a pathetic, weak sound, but still laughter. James shook his head, but even he had to laugh, tentatively at first and then loudly, even as he tried to stifle it for the sake of the other men who were sleeping. It was the exhaustion, he reasoned. Surely it must be.</p><p>“I’ll give you one more sip of tea if you promise not to kill me in my sleep,” he said when he’d calmed down. Francis merely nodded—he was clearly exhausted already. James retrieved the cup, then fitted his other hand under Francis’s head, feeling the grease of his unwashed hair as he lifted his head and helped him gulp down another careful sip of tea. When he lowered him back to his pillow, Francis’s eyes found his.</p><p>“Thank you,” he said. James spent half the night dreaming of that piteous look in his eyes.</p>
<hr/><p>He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment that he took on part of Jopson’s duties around Francis when it came to caring for the man, only that there came a time when James could no longer stand the hunted look on Jopson’s face, the bags under his eyes and the way he practically fell asleep standing when not spoken to. At first, he only watched Francis for a couple of hours so that Jopson could sleep, but after a while he took on other duties—helping him drink his water, fetching a fresh rag for his brow. They seemed like small things in the moment, but they added up.</p><p>Francis was not a grateful patient.</p><p>James wished he was, not least of all because it would have made explaining why exactly he did all of these things so much easier. As things stood, he found himself wondering why he came back to Francis’s bedside time and time again when all the man did was beg James for a sip, just a sip of whiskey, and when that didn’t do the trick, hurled all manners of insults at James, calling into question his experience, his character, or his appearance. After the first few days of this, James found himself looking back on their wardroom dinners with fondness—evidently the man had been holding back.</p><p>There were other moments, too.</p><p>Francis tired easily but didn’t sleep often. When he’d exhausted himself screaming at James, he lay in his bunk with glassy, unfocussed eyes and waited out the seconds, minutes, and hours listlessly, knowing perhaps intellectually but not with the certainty of his body and heart that recovery would come. James knew that feeling. He knew it far too well.</p><p>“Did you know I caught malaria not once but twice while on the Euphrates expedition with Chesney?” James paused in wringing out the cloth and laughed at the irony—Charlewood probably would have pronounced him a terrible patient, too. “They had a dreadfully hard time keeping me in bed so I would recover. And then I broke an arm when we lost the <em>Tigris</em>. Not to mention my watch!”</p><p>With a careful hand, he dabbed at Francis’s forehead again. The man closed his eyes—no doubt the darkness of the cloth over his face provided blessed relief from the pounding in his head. His hands were clenching the sheets in a tight, child-like grip. He was probably frightened—God knew James had been. Just twenty-two and sweating out what felt like his life force in the heat and damp of that place, hoping somebody would remember him after he was gone.</p><p>“It always made for great stories afterwards. But it never felt like it in the moment.”</p><p>Francis turned his head towards him with some difficulty. He was trying to form a word. James leaned in close.</p><p>“How… how did malaria make for a good story?”</p><p>James barked out a laugh. “Well, perhaps not that. But there was a German couple that had requested passage on the <em>Euphrates</em>…”</p><p>Francis’s eyes were focussed on him. It was only strange for the first couple of minutes, then James grew accustomed to the attention. Lord knew the man must be near out of his mind from boredom as well as want of whiskey. Oddly enough, he found that he, too, felt a sort of relief: the relief of not having to edit his tales in the telling, wondering which aspects were too sordid, too horrifying for polite company. The unvarnished truth of the Euphrates was something he’d only been able to share with Charlewood and Cleaveland because they had been there. Strangely, Francis seemed more impressed by these tales than he’d ever been by James’s more dramatic stories.</p><p>James didn’t know what to make of that.</p>
<hr/><p>Francis’s hand shook, even with James’s there to steady his wrist as he guided his cup to his lips. Francis eyed the thing with all the disgust of a man who was clearer of mind but not yet healthy of body, who wanted to beat the unwilling flesh into submission. His knuckles were almost as white as the porcelain, making James fear he’d shatter it before it reached his lips. But the cup, miraculously, survived.</p><p>“Damn it all,” Francis muttered. He was frustrated, which was a far cry better than the desperation through which Jopson and James had nursed him. “They used to shake like that after I came back from the South. I hated it then, and I hate it now!”</p><p>James took the cup from him before more violence could be done to it. “From the cold?”</p><p>Francis shook his head as he drew the blanket back around himself. He was pale, still, though colour was returning to his cheeks. “There were two icebergs. We had to sail through a narrow passage between them. <em>Terror’s</em> rigging got tangled up in that of <em>Erebus</em>. Thought I’d sunk both of us then and there. No one would have ever known what happened to us.”</p><p>James had heard the story before—a daring feat of seamanship, requested often from an ever-obliging James Clark Ross, who always told the tale with modesty and credited Francis’s sailing for their combined survival. James might have guessed the truth of it. After all, he knew what stormy seas looked like, and now he knew the ice, too.</p><p>“My hands shook for weeks afterwards. Ross’s, too. I swore in that moment I’d never go back to sea.”</p><p>James wanted to ask him why he did. It had kept him awake through the miserable nights of their first winter at Beechey—why Francis, slighted again by the Admiralty, would still accept the posting as a Second and sail north once more.</p><p>“Do you want a fresh cloth?” he asked instead.</p><p>Francis narrowed his eyes at him. He was more lucid now, which was a relief to James, even as he wondered what that would mean for—well, their enmity that could hardly be called thus now.</p><p>“I can fetch my own rag, James,” he said.</p><p>“It’s no trouble.”</p><p>James wouldn’t be needed for another hour at least. Sir John had inquired after Francis’s health and Dr MacDonald had assured him there was no danger to the rest of the men and that had been that. But there was precious little to do as things stood.</p><p>Francis closed his eyes and let his head thump backwards against the bulkhead. He put on a brave face, but James wasn’t fooled—he had been the stubborn patient, and he would recognise that mummery anywhere.</p><p>“Why are you doing this?”</p><p>Francis sounded defeated.</p><p>James frowned. “Why am I doing what?”</p><p>“Taking care of me. You’re not my steward. This is beneath you.” His mouth twisted unhappily. “I’ll not stand to be humiliated.”</p><p>“I’m not—I want to help you, Francis.”</p><p>He must feel better indeed if he could find the energy for his snarling refusal of help and good company. James felt betrayed in a way he couldn’t put into words. After weeks of caring for the man, of ensuring his health and privacy, Francis would still find a way to turn it against him.</p><p>“Why?” Francis demanded. His head lolled to the side, fixing James with a sneer of a smile. “Christ knows I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”</p><p>“Because I care, Francis.” James knew his own face was white as ash. “You might find it hard to believe, but I only ever wanted your approval.”</p><p>The smile dropped from Francis’s face. “Don’t—” he began, then closed his mouth firmly, as though stopping some unsavoury thought that had been in danger of spilling forth. James watched him as he looked resolutely ahead, then snuck a sideways glance at James again.</p><p>“You certainly have a strange way of going about that.”</p><p>“Yes, well.” James finally lowered his gaze, the better to hide the heat on his cheeks. “You didn’t exactly make it easy.”</p><p>He could feel Francis’s eyes on him again. Whatever revelation Francis was having, he wanted no part of it. He stood up resolutely, keeping his gaze fixed to his toes.</p><p>“I’ll fetch that cloth now.”</p>
<hr/><p>Thus, the days passed. James slept fitfully, then rose and took a meagre breakfast with Francis before starting his duties. He conducted the morning muster, then was briefed on the state of the provisions and the state of the men. He joined the exercises of the officers, and let Hoar make him presentable just before it was time for second muster of the cohort of men that had just risen from their hammocks. Some days it felt like he was trying to fit two days’ worth of work into one. He finished his days in Francis’s berth, taking dinner with the man and keeping him up-to-date on ship’s business.</p><p>Half the lieutenants had already assembled in the wardroom when James emerged from the great cabin in search of Jopson. Henry was engaged in a conversation with Graham. He looked up when he heard his friend enter.</p><p>“Ah, James! Are you joining us this evening?”</p><p>“Can’t, I’m afraid.”</p><p>Jopson was nowhere in sight, but James spotted two plates on the sideboard that Jopson had no doubt laid out for him and Francis. “I’m keeping the captain company again.”</p><p>Henry made a face, but Graham was all concern. “How is Captain Crozier?”</p><p>“Better every day,” James said, picking up both plates. “I’ll convey the well-wishes of the wardroom.”</p><p>He managed to slide the door to the wardroom shut behind himself without dropping any of the food. Francis was watching him with an amused arc to his eyebrow.</p><p>“You’d make a fine steward, you know.”</p><p>A month ago, James would have taken offense. A month ago, Francis would have meant to hurt him. Now, James set down the plates and got comfortable in the chair next to Francis’s bunk.</p><p>Francis’s complexion looked healthier every day. A new man was emerging from the miserable shell of him that James hadn’t seen before.</p><p>“You’re wrong. I’d make a terrible steward. Used to drop everything as a boy.”</p><p>Francis snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”</p><p>“I’m told it comes with the growth spurt. You lose all sense of proportion. I learnt the shape of the beams on the ships I served on very well.”</p><p>James passed Francis his plate, then reached for his own. The rations looked unappetising as ever—James was honestly surprised that Francis was able to keep any of it down.</p><p>The sounds of the wardroom carried faintly through the bulkhead—Henry’s laughter, an interjection from Hodgson that was challenged by Walter, and every once in a while, a quiet word from Sir John. His dinner with Francis was quiet in comparison, but James found himself surprised at the fact that he nevertheless looked forward to them.</p><p>He wasn’t quite sure how much Francis remembered of his delirium. He had made no mention of the things James had shared with him. Still—and be it only because James knew he had told Francis of his demons—James thought there was a different quality to Francis’s gaze when it happened upon James. Something curious. Something probing.</p><p>At the end of their meal, he collected the plates, then took them out into the great cabin for Jopson to clear away. The temperature had dropped again, and despite the well-stoked brazier, James shivered. When he turned back, Francis was watching him with an expression he couldn’t decipher.</p><p>“You should sleep with me,” Francis said.</p><p>James blinked. “Beg your pardon?”</p><p>“The bunk,” Francis added, his face red, “We can share. It’s too cold out in the cabin.”</p><p>“Oh,” James said. And, “Hm.”</p><p>In truth, he felt like some strange creature had seized him round the throat and was cutting off his air supply. He reached for the edge of the table, just to have something to hold on to.</p><p>His reluctance, he realised, was no longer born from the same place that had wanted to refuse Francis’s closeness even as he was freezing to death: He no longer feared losing face in front of a man who’d had nothing but derision for him. The distance that rank imposed had not survived Francis’s illness. In its place had grown a strange and tentative feeling that James hardly dared name.</p><p>It was simple enough—James had always liked the idea of Francis Crozier, a bold and daring explorer, who went to the Earth’s most remote places without fear. He’d had a harder time loving Francis Crozier the man.</p><p>But by God, he liked him.</p><p>James could count on one hand the close friendships he’d formed over the course of his life, the kind that didn’t end when the ship paid off. He and Charlewood still wrote to each other about worries they couldn’t share with their loved ones on land. There was little he kept from Henry. It would look rather silly to stand on propriety after Henry had nursed him back to health from that blasted cheetah attack, and after James had listened to his stories from the war when they finally emerged from behind Henry’s brittle smile. There was a reason he’d never wanted for either wife or sweetheart, and that was because he already felt perfectly fulfilled in the relationships he had. What more could a man want than a companion by his side?</p><p>The answer presented itself to him in the image of Francis, seated in their shared bunk, a blanket covering his legs upon which his hands rested, balled into nervous helpless fists. The realisation shook him in its force. It left nothing standing in its wake.</p><p>“That’s very kind of you,” James choked out while his heart screamed <em>go to him</em> and his mind scrambled to rein him in, scolding <em>absolutely not</em>.</p><p>Francis shrugged, as though disagreeing with James.</p><p>“I’ve put you out of a proper bed long enough.”</p><p>“It was no trouble, really—”</p><p>“James.”</p><p>Francis had not lost his ability to silence him with nothing more than a word and a look. James wanted to wring his hands, wanted to beg for clemency. <em>Please</em>, he might say, <em>it seems I can bear your friendship even less than your enmity</em>.</p><p>“Do me this one favour, please,” Francis said earnestly.</p><p>James nodded, defeated. “Alright.”</p>
<hr/><p>He awoke in the middle of the night, his mind clear.</p><p>Francis’s body was warm next to his. James had slept more deeply these past few hours than over the course of the entire last month. Although it was a tight fit, squeezing the bodies of two grown men into a bunk barely meant for one, James didn’t feel cramped in the least. The only object trapped in narrow confines which it desperately wanted to escape was his heart, which thudded against his ribcage painfully at every shift of Francis’s sleeping form pressed up against him.</p><p>The man had to know what he was doing.</p><p>James might have known little of love, having thought until a few hours prior that a heart such as his had no use for it, but he knew of seduction. He had both seduced and been seduced, and knew that there had never been a man—or woman, for that matter—who invited someone into their bed without ulterior motives. But as far as overtures went, it was a rather poor one—he’d not instigate anything of that nature while they were aboard ship, and so if they were to follow Francis’s proposal, they’d lie next to each other in this bunk like sardines in a tin until the ice saw fit to release them.</p><p>Besides, with the knowledge James had just gained about the depths of affection his heart was capable of, he wanted to do more than just fumble furtively under the covers (though it did sound appealing, and James’s prick stirred hopefully at the thought.) No, a pickle such as theirs called for the arsenal of romance to be deployed against the fortifications of Francis’s heart. James would have to demonstrate to Francis just how profound his newfound esteem was.</p><p>It was this conundrum that found him awake at such an ungodly hour, overly aware of Francis beside him.</p><p>He had no idea what sort of gesture might move Francis’s heart, and even less of an idea when he took into account the fact that they were currently in the winter harbour of their second year of this expedition and their supply of luxury items was therefore limited. Flowers were out of the question.</p><p>The thought of supplies did put him in mind of something else, however—the very painful selection he’d had to make regarding what to move from his personal stores over to <em>Terror</em>. Much had to be abandoned, or at least it had felt like much at the time. But he’d saved <em>some</em> things that he considered luxuries, a list of items among which was the last of a tea he’d picked up in Bombay once he was finally able to draw on his commander’s salary after taking command of the <em>Clio</em>.</p><p>There, James thought. A friendly gesture, made intimate by the sharing of something rare and precious to oneself. It would do nicely to show Francis that his feelings were returned.</p><p>With the low-banked, steady fire of satisfaction burning in his chest, James managed to finally drift back to sleep. It was all too easy with Francis breathing slowly and deeply beside him.</p>
<hr/><p>The first week of February, Francis proclaimed that he felt well enough to return to his duties. James was relieved to see it but also quietly mourned the loss of the intimacy that Francis’s convalescence had afforded them. The return of Francis to his duties meant a return to their separate schedules, as well as an overall increase in tasks for both of them.</p><p>They first sighted the sun on February 23<sup>rd</sup>, when it stretched a few tentative rays over the horizon to remind them that winter was not eternal, not even in this place. The cosmic darkness that had surrounded them would yield. They would sail out of here.</p><p>James spent his days with half a mind on when he might be able to catch Francis alone. The returning of the light had kindled in him the conviction that his time was rapidly running out, but with the weather more reliable, Sir John insisted on both twice the exercise—to shake of the winter lethargy, he claimed—and an increased workload in preparation for the eventual release of <em>Terror</em> from the ice. Most nights James barely managed a greeting for Francis before he fell face-first into the bunk.</p><p>He watched Francis during their command meetings. Francis was quieter now, but no less insistent on what he felt needed to be done. After watching Francis’s sacrifice and shocking strength of character, James was more inclined to take him at his word. Sir John mostly appeared relieved that their interminable spats had found an end and was inclined to agree with Francis’s proposals if James concurred.</p><p>Dinners were a quieter affair, too—James felt like he had exhausted his share of war stories in Francis’s berth, where he’d washed off their glittering veneer to reveal the grime and dirt underneath, and where he’d finally exorcised them. Most of his time was occupied sneaking glances at Francis, and sometimes catching Francis doing the same.</p><p>It wasn’t until the end of February that he saw a chance to put his plan into motion.</p>
<hr/><p>James was in <em>Terror’s</em> great cabin, digging through boxed that he knew should contain his tea. His personal stores had been loaded into the great cabin, so it stood to reason that the tea had to be here somewhere as well—</p><p>He stopped to swipe the hair out of his face. It had grown longer; no doubt Hoar would have to cut it again soon.</p><p>He wasn’t going about this the right way.</p><p>“James? Is that you making such a ruckus out there?”</p><p>“Ah, Francis.” James waved from behind the boxes. “Don’t be alarmed. I’m looking for something in my personal stores. It’s rather frivolous, so I didn’t want to bother the steward—”</p><p>He stopped himself before he could rattle off more pointless information. Feeling foolish in Francis’s presence was nothing new to James, except it was no longer Francis’s derision that caused it, but James’s own imprudent mouth.</p><p>“Perhaps I can help you look,” Francis suggested after a moment’s pause. James desperately wanted to peer past the boxes, just to catch a glimpse at Francis’s face, but feared for his dignity should he do so. Francis’s voice still sounded rich with sleep, even though he’d gotten up some twenty minutes prior.</p><p>“Don’t trouble yourself,” James insisted. “I’m sure I shall find it presently.”</p><p>“As you wish.”</p><p>Before he could leave, James did crane his head to peer around the boxes. “Jopson tells me you’re free after your shift today. Would you join me for a refreshment?”</p><p>He had to watch the agonising seconds as Francis processed the invitation, then considered it. On his face sat something like surprise. “I—I should like that, I think.”</p><p>“Wonderful,” James said, trying not to sound too relieved. He did not succeed in stymying the grin on his face.</p>
<hr/><p>It was simple enough to have Hoar boil some water. They’d have to make do without milk, once again—James grinned when he remembered that particular line of his poetry—but he could add some sugar for sweetening at the least. The real problem presented itself when James opened the sugar bowl on the sideboard, only to find it empty.</p><p>Well. He could make do without milk, or without sugar, but he could hardly be expected to do without both. So back to the boxes it was, to find out where the sugar had been stashed.</p><p>By the time Francis returned from his duties, James had managed to locate the sugar, refill the sugar bowl, and have two steaming mugs of tea at the ready, smelling sweet and spicy like Christmas. Seated in the chair in Francis’s berth, he tried his damnest not to fidget.</p><p>Francis took off his jacket before he joined James in the berth. He eyed the two cups with an expression that floated somewhere between interested and critical. James wondered if he should have asked Jopson for the good china. It had seemed over the top at the time. Now he wondered how he could have let such a thing slide.</p><p>“What’s this, then?”</p><p>“Tea,” James said, rather obviously. “From India.”</p><p>Francis raised an eyebrow as he seated himself. He took the cup James offered him in equally amused silence, then closed his eyes as he lifted the cup to his lips and took a deep breath. A pleased hum escaped his throat.</p><p>“Smells very good.” He opened one eye to peer at James. “Is that what you were looking for earlier?”</p><p>James, who’d had a restless couple hours’ sleep between that last encounter and now, felt his cheeks grow warm again. His heart was beating at triple speed. He felt bare under Francis’s gaze in a wonderfully exhilarating way.</p><p>“Yes. I—I thought you might like it.”</p><p>Francis raised the cup to his lips and blew away some of the steam. His nose crinkled adorably as he did. “I’m sure I will.”</p><p>He took a sip, careful of the hot liquid. Something like shock passed over his face.</p><p>“It’s—sweet,” he said, looking at the cup with wide eyes.</p><p>James’s heart performed a complicated acrobatic feat in his chest before continuing at its merry anxious pace. “Yes. The drink is traditionally prepared with sugar.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>Francis made a gesture towards the great cabin.</p><p>“Ah,” James said, “I noticed you were out of sugar, so I took the liberty of refilling the sugar bowl.”</p><p>“You—yourself, you mean?”</p><p>James was no longer sure what was happening, but he was sure that it wasn’t going how he’d pictured it. For one, Francis was not drinking his tea, which James had prepared for him so lovingly. He was also white as a sheet.</p><p>“I did.” He stuck his chin out; a habit trained too well by Francis’s obstinance. It was just like the early days of their voyage, when Francis had been all up in arms about—</p><p>Oh.</p><p>His tea. His <em>sugar</em>. The source of their first disagreement.</p><p>If James were to hurl himself off <em>Terror’s</em> mainmast, no one would miss him, great fucking blundering oaf that he was. James just had to go and put his foot in it.</p><p>Francis was still looking at him with that undecipherable expression.</p><p>James stood, knocking against the table in his haste. His teacup fell over, spilling tea in the saucer and beyond it. He could feel his face flushed hot with shame.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Francis, I—I have to go. Duty calls.”</p><p>He laughed nervously, then fled out of the berth.</p>
<hr/><p>James threw himself into his work with the abandon he’d last displayed after failing his lieutenant’s examination—he took any possible task, as long as it promised to be even vaguely distracting. When Henry asked him if he was alright, he smiled. Of course he was alright. After all, what reason did he have not to be perfectly alright? It wasn’t like he’d lost something close to his heart—for that, he should have first been able to credibly claim it as his.</p><p>His only consolation was that Francis would likely be asleep once James finished his tasks for the day, especially if he could manage to convince Henry to take a nightcap with him. Maybe James could ask for that place in his berth, too. Then all that was left was to avoid Francis for the rest of the voyage, something that was both reasonable and feasible.</p><p>Of course there was light in the berth when James returned, his ears warm from the gin he’d shared with Henry.</p><p>“Drat,” he muttered under his breath, only to discover he’d been somewhat louder than intended when Francis’s voice floated from out of the berth. “James? Is that you?”</p><p>An apology. The least he owed the man was an apology.</p><p>He put on a smile that he held like a shield in front of him as he rounded the corner. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”</p><p>Francis’s eyes, gently beholding him.</p><p>“You didn’t.”</p><p>James sighed, willing himself towards sobriety and gaining no ground. It was no use. He eyed his chair in Francis’s berth, then decided that was too familiar. He’d have to remain standing.</p><p>“Francis—” he began, steeling himself for the words he’d have to speak. “I’m sorry—”</p><p>“James,” Francis said gently, and all the fight went out of James. “Will you sit with me at least?”</p><p>James pressed his lips together; nodded. “Alright.”</p><p>This close to Francis he had no hope of maintaining any sort of detached coolness. This close, he could see every line that life had left on Francis’s face. This close, he could see the hairs on his head that were no longer blonde but had in fact turned white.</p><p>Francis took a deep, steadying breath.</p><p>“I fear I owe you an apology. Space is scarce. It is of the utmost importance to keep relations smooth. I fear I have not—I fear I have not paid adequate attention to your needs. Those concerning appropriate distance.” A breath that sounded like steam bellows. “For that I am sorry.”</p><p>James could do nothing but stare at him.</p><p>“What on earth are you talking about?”</p><p>“Don’t be obtuse, James.” Francis’s glare held some of his former ire. “I’m sorry for—for my inappropriate behaviour.”</p><p>Was Francis mocking him?</p><p>“If anyone has to apologise for their inappropriate behaviour, it’s me, Francis. I didn’t mean to mock you. The sugar—”</p><p>“The sugar?”</p><p>“The sugar,” James confirmed. “I only meant to—I wasn’t thinking—I didn’t mean to drag up this issue between us.”</p><p>“For God’s sake, James—” Francis looked at him in red-faced disbelief. “I don’t care about the damned sugar!”</p><p>“Oh.” James deflated as though he’d received a bucket full of ice melt to the face, or perhaps the full blast of an Arctic gale. “Then what are you—?”</p><p>Francis’s hands were clenched into tight fists in his lap. There was a tension in his body that put James in the mind of a rope, stretched taut and fraying perilously. One more push, and James wasn’t sure what he’d do.</p><p>If James, after the past twenty-four hours of raised and dashed hopes, were still in the hoping business, he might have drawn some bold conclusions.</p><p>“Francis, may I—”</p><p>Bugger it all to hell, this was beyond words. There always came a point when action was better than speech.</p><p>He reached out, hand poised somewhere halfway between their bodies, before gathering all the courage he kept in his heart and bridging the gap, bringing it to rest on Francis’s shoulder. One thumb rested—lightly and so weightily—just above Francis’s collar.</p><p>Francis took a sharp breath, and though he didn’t move, his eyes flickered down to James’s arm. James leaned forward into Francis’s space, hoping yes, of course, that he’d read the signs right but also hoping that he wouldn’t be left to make all the moves. Lord knew he wasn’t brave enough for that.</p><p>Francis looked at him—really looked at him. This close, his eyes were the most complex shade of blue, a swab from every ocean James had ever seen: the easy bright aquamarine of the Indian ocean, the deep rich blue of the Atlantic, the North Sea’s stormy grey. James could hardly hold up under such a gaze, had always known that at least—but when he went to avert his eyes, Francis’s hand, this steadfast sailor’s hand that no longer trembled for want of something, came up to cradle his cheek. Francis tilted James’s face softly upwards.</p><p>God, how James wanted to kiss him—more than he’d wanted to go to sea, more than he’d wanted this assignment in the North, more than he’d ever wanted to make a new life for himself away from his father’s shadow. He’d always thought it strange that some people claimed to be so slave to desire that they could not be held accountable for their decisions, had thought the rhapsodies to ecstasy mere exaggerations. He had certainly never believed that one day he’d find himself mere inches from someone who’d make him want to throw caution to the wind for the sake of feeding a very particular hunger. And he’d certainly not expected the tart taste of regret mixed into this concoction, the price of thoughtlessness—for if he lost Francis’s regard, this newest boon he’d been granted, he knew it would crush him.</p><p>The wealth of feeling left him quite immobile.</p><p>Francis made an impatient noise at the back of his throat—a rasping dismissal—then closed the distance between them.</p><p>The shock that went through James was immediate and fierce. He could <em>smell</em> Francis, the private scent of his skin that he’d previously only caught on their shared pillow. Though the point of contact was small—James’s cheek and his lips, and the wayward slip of skin above Francis’s collar—James felt like he was being touched everywhere at once.</p><p>The sudden awareness of his body was unnerving. He’d spent so much time wanting to kiss Francis that he’d hardly spared any thought to how he’d do it, what it might involve and what might be expected of him. He pressed forward experimentally, tilted his head into Francis’s hand cupping his cheek and felt Francis parting his lips as though sighing softly. This was followed by the pointed, probing trail of Francis’s tongue against James’s lips.</p><p>James—whose arousal thus far had been a simmering, patient force—gasped and pitched forward into Francis, who caught him easily. James buried his face in Francis’s broad uniformed chest and tried to regulate his breathing while willing the pulsing of blood in his member to still, lest he embarrass himself. If he had been even marginally more aware of himself, he might have blushed at the fact that he’d swooned—<em>swooned!</em>—in Francis’s arms like a blushing virgin. His desires were decidedly not virginal.</p><p>“God, Francis.” James let out a shaky laugh. “I’m afraid I must apologise for—well.”</p><p>He made a gesture that sought to encompass both his fierce madness for Francis and his body’s reaction. Francis reached for his hand and squeezed it, his eyes bright and attentive. When he spoke, his voice was rasping and dry with desire.</p><p>“You’ve nothing to apologise for, James, Christ—” He cleared his throat, swallowed thickly. “I thought I’d scared you away, wanting you like I did. I thought it was obvious. That I disgusted you.”</p><p>James pressed a hand to the front of his trousers, just for the momentary relief of it. He laughed weakly.</p><p>“Far from it, I fear.”</p><p>Francis followed the movement of his hand. His hold on James’s other hand tightened.</p><p>“My shift is starting.”</p><p>James didn’t follow until he caught sight of the helpless look in Francis’s eyes.</p><p>“I have to go, James, I—”</p><p>James had refused to consider it just some weeks ago, now he could barely restrain himself for want of it: Francis slipping into the bunk behind him, wrapping his arms around James like he’d done before, pressing his stiff prick against James’s arse. The stifling, sticky closeness of another man’s body. His smell, the sound of his breath in James’s ear.</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>Francis kissed him again. James had heard tell that love transformed people but if anything, Francis seemed more like himself: that same exacting care he devoted to shipboard business was now turned on James. It felt like a furnace at full blast. Francis’s devotion to his tasks had felt like an imposition when he’d spelled out their doom at the hands of the ice, but now that James was the target it became nigh unbearable. Who could resist Francis Crozier when he had set himself a goal? They hadn’t been able to, and now James wasn’t able to.</p><p>“Promise me you won’t go anywhere,” Francis muttered against his lips.</p><p>“Where would I go?”</p><p>He could feel Francis smile. A thrill shot through him at the thought of that mouth pulled into a crooked grin, revealing the charming gap between his teeth. “Just—promise me, alright?”</p><p>“Alright,” James said.</p>
<hr/><p>“Yup, that’s leads there alright. You can tell by how the ice there reflects the light that’s been melting for a couple of days now. Should be wide enough to carve a channel if the weather holds.”</p><p>Ice Master Blanky’s voice was loud enough that it was effortlessly audible on deck, though he himself was holding on to the rigging high up above it. James had his head tilted backwards to keep him in his sight—he’d chosen to remain on deck with Sir John, while Thomas Blanky and Francis made the climb together to sight the ice around them. James had watched Francis pull himself up the ice-covered ropes with a mixture of helpless infatuation and fear that he was staring too much.</p><p>“That’s excellent news!” John exclaimed, stood at the guardrail staring out at the ice as though he might be able to spy the leads himself from here. James abandoned his contemplation of Francis’s dark form thrown into stark relief by the first bright cloudless sky of the season and joined John at the railing.</p><p>“We should get the men sawing right away. It’ll lift their spirits, having something to do.”</p><p>“A very good idea, James.”</p><p>John’s eyes were fixed to a distant point on the horizon. James wondered what he was seeing—if he already pictured England and their heroes’ welcome.</p><p>James himself couldn’t picture it. It wasn’t only the ice still weighing on him, nor Francis’s warnings ringing in his ears that made it hard to picture England. He still dreamt of glory, but the dream was as distant as ever. What ideas he’d had—about outshining the expedition’s success by outrunning them on land—had been replaced by a more concrete, and more immediate dream.</p><p>“It’s promising, at least,” Francis said later, after dinner, when they had retired to their shared berth. Sunlight and the necessity to confer about the rapidly changing ice conditions had been a welcome excuse to synchronise their schedules again, but it also meant precious time they could share at the end of the day.</p><p>“He’s already passing it off as his own idea,” James snorted. “As though it was his great insight into the ice conditions that brought us here.”</p><p>There wasn’t a single malicious bone in John’s body, James was sure, but the man had a certain capacity for selective amnesia. He always managed to twist past events into their most pleasant version: conflict obscured; faults of leadership buried under smiling unanimity at the wardroom table. James wondered if John even remembered the early spats between him and Francis, or if that, too, had been painted with the rosy veneer of hindsight.</p><p>Francis scoffed. It was warm enough in the cabin that he was down to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves.</p><p>“Let him. It’s no skin off my nose.”</p><p>James often found himself caught between the urge to say something romantic and wondering if it would perhaps be too forward. Francis had never struck him as a romantic, but he did look ever so pleased whenever James complimented him. James felt ready to defend him by sword if necessary; Francis seemed to find that quietly amusing, but it also made him blush.</p><p>“You should get your due. Who knows where we’d be, had we not listened to you.”</p><p>“Who knows, indeed.” Francis shook his head. “I’ve lost my appetite for glory, James.”</p><p>At that, James laughed. “I was thinking about that earlier, if you can believe it.”</p><p>“Indeed?”</p><p>Francis raised an eyebrow. James felt the knot of longing and admiration close up his throat again.</p><p>“I was thinking about Honolulu.” He swallowed. It did little to help. “A room, with a view of the harbour.”</p><p>Francis’s eyes darkened. He’d taken James’s meaning, then.</p><p>“It’s funny. I can picture it more clearly than London, even though I’ve never seen Honolulu,” James mused.</p><p>“Yes,” Francis rasped, then cleared his throat, clearly surprised at how hoarse he sounded. “Yes, I—I feel it, too.”</p><p>“Like a future that is just beginning to emerge from a thick fog,” James agreed.</p><p>“I’ll find that room for us,” Francis said, a twinkle in his eyes. “Should be no challenge at all, after finding the Northwest Passage.”</p>
<hr/><p>It was the blasted birds that kept him from sleeping. James Fitzjames, a sailor since age twelve, woke in the middle of the night from the cry of a seagull, likely cheated out of his dinner down by the water. He fell asleep about half an hour later, only to wake just before the sun began to crest over the horizon when the birds woke, keeping him from the deep, restless slumber he so craved.</p><p>Francis next to him had no such compunctions.  </p><p>He lay sleeping quietly on his side, face turned towards James. The more southerly latitudes had already marked his skin, turning it bright red within a matter of days. Even asleep, there were two bright spots of colour on his cheeks that likely sprung from the heat in the room that even James felt. He quietly slipped out of bed to open the window, hoping for a breeze.</p><p>Their room did not overlook the harbour, but it offered a lovely view of the green interior of the island. James was glad of it. Their arrival, once it had become clear who they were and where they had come from, had caused quite a stir. There was a constant stream of visitors down by the port to see <em>Terror</em>. No doubt the first ships were already racing back to San Francisco, Portland or Vancouver, scrambling to be the ones to deliver the news of the accomplishment of the passage to the international press. James spared a thought to Russia and China and his land route, and felt a sudden rush of gratitude that he was not among those sycophants of glory. A knighthood would have to be enough. A knighthood, and their survival.</p><p>A knighthood, and their survival, and Francis.</p><p>The breeze was not forthcoming, and so, with a sigh, James returned to the bed. Francis stirred as the mattress dipped, but he didn’t quite wake. James reached out and carefully smoothed his hair down.</p><p>To be without layers upon layers had been a welcome novelty for them as they left the ice behind. For James it also meant increasing torture as Francis abandoned slops and greatcoat and revealed the fine, muscular form that the bulk of his layers had thus far concealed.</p><p>James should have thought himself terribly lecherous, had he not caught Francis looking at him with a similar madness when James rolled up his sleeves at the end of the day. It had become a game between them, then—a courtship of untied cravats and rolled-up sleeves, of a carelessly buttoned shirt, half askew. Francis had a gift for secret, innocuous touches that drove James wild every time, and he knew to employ them well.</p><p>And now they were here, in their promised room. Well, rooms, but Francis’s had been abandoned at the beginning of the night after mussing the sheets a little. Then they had slept, wrapped in each other.</p><p>Now, really rested for the first time in months, if not years, James found himself beset by a restlessness whose source was only too easy to identify.</p><p>“How long have you been staring at me?”</p><p>James startled at the sound of Francis’s voice. He smiled as Francis peered at him, looking barely awake.</p><p>“A couple of minutes at most.”</p><p>Francis made a contemplative noise. He rolled from his side onto his back and stretched out his limbs, quite unaware of the fact that as he did so, James’s breath caught in his throat. He had to restrain himself from burying his face in Francis’s stomach.</p><p>“I’d forgotten what it’s like not to knock into something as soon as you stretch out an arm,” Francis sighed, contentedly.</p><p>James snorted out an amused laugh.</p><p>“Did you sleep well?” he asked. Francis rolled back onto his side, facing James with eyes that looked somewhat more awake.</p><p>“I did. Excellently, in fact.”</p><p>James wanted to say something like <em>good</em> or <em>I’m glad</em>, but he quite forgot his words when he met Francis’s eyes. They were alone here. No one knew them, and they were not expected back aboard ship for another few hours at least.</p><p>“How did you sleep?” Francis asked.</p><p>“Hm? Oh.” James shook his head. “Alright, I suppose. The birds woke me.”</p><p>He felt silly. After the intimacies that they had already shared, this should be a small thing. He should no longer be insecure of Francis’s regard, and yet—</p><p>Francis sat up. “What’s on your mind, James?”</p><p>James felt the blood rush to his face; hated himself for such a telling reaction. He held on to an edge of the sheet; pulled it taut between his hands as though fidgeting with something might release the nervous knot in his belly.</p><p>“I’m thinking of the uses of a room.”</p><p>Francis raised an eyebrow. “There are many of those.”</p><p>James scoffed and turned his head, just catching the edge of Francis’s smile as he did. “You’re a terrible tease.”</p><p>“You’re the one who first spoke of the <em>uses of a room</em>, James.”</p><p>James threw up his hands. “Well, I’ve never—I’m trying to seduce you, Francis.”</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>When James turned to Francis, he noted a pleasing colour in his cheeks that had not been put there by the sun. Something inside of him settled.</p><p>“Not to sound like a critic, but you might try something like this.”</p><p>Francis leaned forward, fitting one hand under James’s chin and brought it forward until he could press their lips together. James gasped despite himself—their kisses had lost none of their novelty, for Francis always kissed him with a solemn concentration that shook James to his toes. James rolled onto his side as well until he had fitted himself properly into Francis’s space and could grasp at his hip to steady himself.</p><p>When Francis released his lips, he felt jittery. Quite unbecoming at his age.</p><p>“That will do the trick, yes.”</p><p>Francis’s grin was a mischievous, private thing. James caught it with his mouth, kissed Francis until Francis lay on his back and he could straddle Francis in a move of boldness that surprised him. His hair fell forward, framing them like fraying curtains. Francis tucked it back behind his ears.</p><p>“Seems you’ve caught on.”</p><p>To think he’d resented Francis’s guidance, once. There was a patience about him as he waited for James to come to him.</p><p>Francis grasped James’s hips. “The things I want to do to you, James,” he groaned.</p><p>Perhaps not so patient after all. It brought a smile to James’s face. “We have time,” he said.</p><p>Something passed over Francis’s face at the words—a cloud driven past the sun by a quick spring wind, but James caught it, nevertheless. “What is it?”</p><p>Francis pulled himself together before James’s very eyes, like he was trying to sand down edges so James wouldn’t cut himself on them. “Nothing, I—you’re right. We have time, don’t we?”</p><p>“Would you doubt it?”</p><p>Francis sighed, and this time he could not quite conceal the pained twinge to his face. “I have, in the past had reason to—but it’s not fair to you, James. Please.”</p><p>James thought about what Franklin had told him, then. <em>He took it worse the second time, James. We must extend him some understanding, while he recovers from that</em>. The pain of seeing one’s hopes dashed a second time that might drive a man to drink, or worse. The kind of pain that might drive a man to the Arctic.</p><p>James leaned forward. He took Francis’s beautiful, weathered face between his hands.</p><p>“I’ve never had a life beside the sea. I never thought I might want one. The sea affords you a certain… closeness to your fellow men that’s not permissible on land, or so I thought.” Did it always feel like this, opening up one’s heart? James’s pulse thrummed under his skin. His hands felt clammy. “I want to say this: On land or at sea, Francis, I’ll go with you, if you’ll have me.”</p><p>Francis nodded; stunned. He licked his lips. His eyes were roving across James’s face as though trying to decipher some ancient mystery.</p><p>“Yes,” he finally said, “Yes, James, yes,” before surging up to kiss James.</p><p>Their passion of this late night turned early morning had been building for months and months. Francis gripped the hem of James’s nightshirt, and James sat up long enough for Francis to pull it over his head. He didn’t know why he’d bothered with the damn thing—it was too hot already, and with Francis running his hands up and down James’s legs, his sides, his arms, James felt near stifled.</p><p>“Handsomest man in the bloody navy,” Francis muttered, “I’ll believe it now.”</p><p>James placed a vindictive kiss against Francis’s throat. “Only now?”</p><p>“Who knows—<em>ah</em>.” Francis squirmed as James fastened his lips to his skin and sucked. “Who knows what that uniform hides. A good tailor can conceal—<em>Christ, James</em>—many a fault.”</p><p>James sat up again, tossing his hair back. He wondered if he could find a band somewhere to tie it back. Damned inconvenient, the way it kept falling in his face while he sought to press his lips to every inch of Francis’s skin.</p><p>He nearly missed Francis’s quiet <em>oh</em>. Francis’s hand came up slowly, his fingers tracing hesitantly over the scar in James’s side.</p><p>“Is that—”</p><p>James winced. “It’s not pretty, I know.”</p><p>“No, it’s only—it never sounded real. Who would describe getting shot like that?”</p><p>“Ah.” James laughed. “Someone very young, who is aware he has no polar expertise to speak of and is trying to prove he’s earned his seat at the table.”</p><p>“Perhaps you should doubt yourself less.”</p><p>“I’m sure that’s not what you would have said a year ago.”</p><p>Francis’s hands tightened on James’s hips. “Forgive me for that, James. Please believe me when I say I regret it wholeheartedly.”</p><p>James thought of Francis, crying pathetically in his bunk. Thought of him muttering <em>I must, I must</em>.</p><p>“It’s forgiven, Francis.”</p><p>They kissed again, more languidly. Francis pried James’s mouth open with his tongue, then licked inside like he had a claim to it. A shudder went through James, from his crown to his toes, and he moaned at the intimacy of the invasion, the implicitness with which Francis presumed his welcome. His prick stiffened where it lay against Francis’s stomach.</p><p>Francis’s hands were leaving red imprints on his hips. He moved under James like he was unaccustomed to laying on his back, forever chasing James’s mouth or seeking to press himself closer to James atop him somehow. When James pulled back from a kiss he sat up, following James and drawing him into a crush of an embrace. The movement trapped James’s prick between their bellies, and James cried out in surprise.</p><p>“Darling,” Francis muttered, a sentimentality that thrilled James.</p><p>“Say it again,” he demanded.</p><p>“Darling,” Francis rasped, and James shuddered. Francis’s stubble rubbed wonderfully against his cheek.</p><p>James clung to his shoulders. “Touch me,” he demanded.</p><p>And Francis did, with a hand as steadfast as his character. James braced his forehead against Francis’s shoulder. He whimpered—he would have been embarrassed but for how well Francis held him, and how sweetly he whispered in his ear, <em>“Just like that, James, just like that.”</em></p><p>In that moment, it all made sense—every decision, good and poor, that he’d made in his life had led him here. Here was where his life culminated, in Francis’s arms, Francis’s hand on his prick. Francis’s voice in his ear, and Francis’s breath hot on his skin.</p><p>“Oh fuck, yes Francis, yes, right—”</p><p>—<em>there</em>, he’d meant to say, but then he was there already, emptying himself over Francis’s hand and nightshirt. He squeezed his eyes shut, numb to everything but where Francis was touching him, holding him, keeping him. He released a shuddering breath.</p><p>“Beautiful,” Francis muttered, and James shivered again. His hand was cradling James’s prick softly, sending hot waves of too much pleasure rolling over James’s skin. He rested in the aftermath a moment, allowing Francis to touch him with all the care and reverence he’d never attributed to the man.</p><p>They separated slowly. James found a cloth to wipe down Francis’s hand, then stripped him of his nightshirt. They laid back down on the bed, James nestled in Francis’s arm. James’s hand drew idle patterns onto the skin of Francis’s hip.</p><p>“May I touch you, Francis?”</p><p>Francis’s eyes found his. They looked very open, and very earnest. “Yes.”</p><p>James thrilled at the feeling of Francis’s prick in his hand. It was warm, yes, a rigid line in his hand, the skin soft under James’s palm. Francis’s breath went unsteady at the first pressure of James’s fingers.</p><p>“You’ll forgive my lack of finesse, I hope,” James muttered, “I haven’t had much cause to explore the… enjoyment of the act, as it were.”</p><p>Francis hummed a question, and James elaborated. “The thought was usually towards the finishing.”</p><p>Francis laughed, then gasped again as James gripped him tightly. He seemed incapable of looking away from James’s face, his expression caught on something wonderstruck, as though he couldn’t believe it was James touching him thusly. James kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him until he was breathless, and Francis was little more than panting into his mouth, hips rising up to meet James’s strokes. He finished with a surprised gasp, eyes slipping shut in quiet rapture while James held him through it.</p><p>They cleaned themselves off again and settled back on the bed. Outside, it was nearly light.</p><p>“You said, <em>‘on land or on sea, if you’ll have me’</em>,” Francis said, “But I fear the opposite is true. You’ll have a hard time ever getting rid of me. My heart’s not made for it, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“You say that as though it is a great burden,” James said.</p><p>“It has been to some people. In the past.”</p><p>James splayed his hand over Francis’s chest. It rested squarely over the steadfast pulse of Francis’s heart. He wanted to mend the hurt the poor organ had endured—and with time, he might. Until then, all he could do was love Francis, and love him well.</p><p>“There’s no burden too great for me, Francis.” A smile, tucked into the corner of his mouth. “In fact, have I told you about the time I volunteered to deliver the mails—”</p><p>Beside him in bed, Francis laughed, and groaned. James felt the rumble of it under his hand. He could imagine no sweeter feeling than that.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’m also on on <a href="https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> or <a href="https://twitter.com/veganthranduil">twitter</a> as veganthranduil. If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving me a comment.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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